Shadows
by Forgiveness Lost
Summary: The rain always reminds me of the day my first string snapped-the one that connected me to all things. It was raining then, too. I trace the scar behind my ear. Mom always told me to keep my hair down, keep it covered, bury the truth because she couldn't handle it. It was a mistake. She didn't mean to get that drunk. Didn't mean to bury shards of her wine bottle in my neck.
1. Chapter 1

We are connected to Earth by a multitude of strings. They begin in our heart and branch out like those of a tree. Some run as small as an inch. Some stretch on for miles, traveling even as far as the other end of the world. When those strings die, one by one, so do we. When the end breaks off, the string entwines itself with the one closest to it.

To put it simply: the older we get, the more we lose, and the more we latch onto what remains.

The rain always reminds me of the day my first string snapped. It was raining then, too. I trace the scar behind my ear. Mom always told me to keep my hair down, keep it covered, bury the truth because she couldn't handle it. It was a mistake. She didn't mean to get that drunk. Didn't mean to bury shards of her wine bottle in my neck.

I was ten. And wore my hair piled in a messy bun atop my head the next day and the one after that. It wasn't my mistake to be ashamed of.

"Are you listening to me?" Gran asks. She pats my hand, the one with fingers curled around the handle of a mug.

I look up to her and give a weak smile.

She sighs and tightens her fingers around my hand, then pulls away and points an accusing finger. "You really should check out that program down in La Push." Seeing my pathetic smile drop like a light switch, she says, "You really liked it when you came with me last time. And I don't go anymore, so you don't have to be shy about what you say." She sits back in her chair and takes a sip of her coffee, waiting.

I sigh, waiting, too. Waiting for the wall to crumble beneath the weight of her stare. "Fine," I agree before she breaks it down. "I'll go."

"Well, don't go on my account." She lifts the mug to her lips again, to hide her smile, I'm sure, and puts a hand in the air as a white flag. "You have to go for you."

But I'm not ready to disassemble my heart and lay the parts on the table. I'm not ready. Other peoples' messes, I can bare to the world. I can dig into their dirt until my fingers bleed. Their pieces are easy to display, easy to accept. I can't bear to look at mine.

I drink the rest of my coffee in a few sips and drop the mug in the sink. Gran's lips pucker for a kiss, and I turn to kiss her on the cheek. "I'll see you this afternoon," I tell her, and grab my purse and yoga mat near the door.

When the lock clicks behind me, I can breathe again. I love Gran, and she's my best friend, but I can't always talk about the failed relationship between my parents and me. I don't want to. I lean against the door and close my eyes, but straighten back up. I don't need any of the neighbors asking questions.

Only when I pull out of the driveway do I feel the weight lifting from my shoulders.

I need to drive down to La Push more often. The highway is lined with nothing but forest on either side, and there isn't any traffic. I may have passed one or two cars, but my lane is empty for as far as I can see. I'm more at peace behind the steering wheel than anywhere else. I try to stifle my disappointment as the community center comes into view.

I hope it's still held here. It's been a few months since I went with Gran, and sometimes these things fizzle out, right? Shots fired within my ribcage. Color drains from my face, and the overwhelming urge to run to the restroom. Three cars. Three whole cars. I know La Push is small, but smaller crowds mean more attention.

Just do it. I can do it. I run my hands over my face, like it'll squash the nervousness, and shut off my car in the lot. I lean my head against the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths before getting out of the car.

Warm air brushes my face when I open the door to the community center. I shake away the bite in my fingertips, rub my hands together. Damn, it's starting to get pretty cold. I pull the scarf from around my neck and fold it. Voices carry from the end of the hall, the same room as before. Everything looks the same.

"Brianna, I'm glad you made it," Emily Uley said, pushing herself away from the table. "I was worried the weather wouldn't hold out."

I halfway lifted my hand in a greeting and grabbed the nearest seat so she wouldn't hug me. "It's nice to see you," I said, tilting my head toward her in politeness.

Her smile twitches, but I can't tell if she's hurt by my rejection or amused. Half lifted from her seat, she sits back down. "It's nice to see you, too, sweetie. Is everyone ready to start?"

There are four of us. A man in a wheel chair, a younger woman—short hair, bags beneath her eyes, unnervingly thin—Emily, and myself. Three natives and one paleface. Just another reason to feel set apart.

Al-Anon is easier than I thought it would be. Emily makes it that way. She doesn't draw attention. Doesn't have any expectations. It's easy with her. The tension in my shoulders falls to my feet and I kick it beneath the table, left to be swept away by the janitor sometime later.

Then, I can feel the cords. I'm tethered to two of these three people in the room. Emily and the man in the wheel chair. The chords feel thick, braided, unyielding. I can't help but sink into it.

When it's my turn, I show my scar.

***  
I had to be home before dark, and technically, the sky was still light, so it wasn't completely dark when I stepped foot in the house. As soon as the door closed behind me, a bottle flew toward my face. Pure instinct took over and I ducked, but the bottle hit the wall and shattered. A sliver embedded itself behind my left ear.

"You little shit," Mom said, pointing her finger at me. "You were supposed to be home before dark." Her eyes were wide, heavy and dark on the skin beneath. She could hardly stand on her own two feet.

But then again, my eyesight might have been screwed up from the blood loss.

"Thank you," Emily says.

Then it's the woman's turn.

I still feel like a part of me is sick for telling the story, but another part is relieved. The more people that know, the less I must hide it from. The less I have to talk.

A chair screeches against the old floors, and I jump. The woman across from me stares down at the table in front of her, cheeks red from the remnants of tears.

Emily's voice rings, echoes off the whitewashed walls, signaling the end of the meeting. Her fingers wrap around the handles to Billy's wheelchair—he couldn't stop thinking about the loss of his wife all week—and pulled him away from the table. When she passes the threshold leading to the hallway, she sends me a look. We'll talk later, it says.

A hum of thunder in the distance. The creaking of an old roof. Lightning flashes on the horizon.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, for no good reason. Nothing's my fault. I've done nothing wrong. And here I am, ready with an apology strung out from the hollow in my stomach.

The woman across from me—Sue—looks up. Her long hair casts a veil of darkness against her cheek. Makes her eyes look like my own. Dark. Ragged. Unsure. Broken. She grieves the loss of her husband. A smile. She tucks her hair behind her ear and the darkness falls away. Leaves kindness, openness, acceptance. "Thank you," she says to me.

My lips twitch. You're welcome. It was nothing. Okay. Sure. Glad I could help.

None of these words fall from my lips. My chair scrapes, feet tap against the floor, I leave her there. In her own sorrows as darkness grows from the middle of my chest, wrapping around my lungs and slithering through my veins. She'll move on. She's already begun the process.

Here I am. Running.

Right into Emily.

"Sorry." I cringe. It's the only thing I can seem to say. Spiderweb cracks cross the tile beneath my shoe. My hands fumble with the fabric of my folded scarf. Half of it falls from my fingertips, and I slide it around my neck.

"I know this is a bit last minute," she says. Her voice is smooth enough to soothe the ache winter brings to my knees. "But would you like to come have coffee with me? My house is just down the road and it's still early."

The claw marks do nothing to silence the smile across her face. To be her. To be carefree. I want that.

I like coffee.

Yes.


	2. Chapter 2

I open my palms to the fireplace, welcome the heat to my aching fingertips. I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands and press them against my nose. It's times like these I miss the heat of the south.

The flames lick bricks, wood. My fingers if I put them close enough. Its colors reflect the rug beneath my knees in hues of red trim, dark orange stitching, golden flecks. Brown to tie the colors to the earth.

Emily's home accepted me the moment I stepped through the threshold. I feel warmth. I feel connectedness. I feel the bonds that live and breathe in this place. The fire captivates me, and my eyes linger in its depths.

The woman is quiet, so much so that I jump when a mug appears in front of me, tied to dark fingers that belong to her. I murmur thanks and cup my hands around the welcome mug. Light sits on the dark, sweet on the bitter, froth on the coffee. I take a sip, then hug it closer to my core in hopes that the heat will fill me from the inside out. Perfect.

Emily leans forward, dropping her own mug on the coffee table, then looks back to sit on the couch. Tucks her feet beneath her, then reaches for the mug again. She cradles it in her fingers but doesn't sip. "So, how is your Gran?" she asks. Not about why I'm on the floor. Not about my story in Al-Anon.

I nod. "She's good. Great, really." Another sip. Heat trickles down my throat, splashes to the pit of my stomach, and I'm warm. The lights flicker at thunder rolling atop the roof. My eyes roam up, sliding over miniscule cracks in the ceiling, looking for

She nods back. "And you?"

"Me?"

"How are you doing?" she asks. Her eyes bore into mine, expecting an answer I can't give.

"I'm fine," I say.

Emily opens her mouth to speak.

"This coffee is really good. Thank you," I say.

She closes her mouth, places a smile on her lips. She sips, then cradles the mug in her lap. "You're welcome. It's the only thing I can splurge on. The boys don't drink it, but they'll inhale just about everything else."

An opportunity to bring the spotlight away from me. "The boys?" I've heard of the La Push gang before, but only in rumors.

Her grin widens. "My husband's boys, really. They can't seem to stay away from this place. I had to convince them to let me have the house for the day. They're off brooding at one of the other houses, I'm sure."

"Oh," I say. Stare into my mug. "I hope I'm not putting anyone out."

Emily waves her hand. "Nonsense. My home is open to you any time. Just say the word. It's nice to have a new face around here, too. I just didn't want them to scare you off."

I shrug. Southerners are partiers. I'm used to being around rowdy strangers drunk on beer and the adrenaline poker brings. To Harleys and crawfish boils. Sunday morning masses and gumbo lunches. Where crowds are prevalent, and solitude is near nonexistent. Where family is always the most important part of one's life. Or should be.

Sip.

Thunder.

It starts as though someone is tapping against the windows, a gentle _rap, rap, rap_ , and ends in a tidal wave, smashing against the side of the house. A bolt of lightning strikes, flashes just outside.

The dim lighting of the house flickers once, twice, before shutting off completely, leaving Emily and I in the afterglow of the storm streaming in through the windows. I stare down at my hands, the coffee hidden in the shadows of my mug, and squint. Astigmatism is no joke.

Emily scoots to the edge of the couch, peering out the window, as though she's looking for something, or sees something.

I lift onto my knees to look through the window and see nothing but trees blurring in the mesh of wind and rain. Dark masses barrel through the storm, and thud against the porch. My chest tightens, fingers begin shaking. Breathe, I remind. Breathe.

My back rests against the brick wall of the fireplace.

The front door slams open, and a horde of men collapse in the entryway.

"Boys," Emily scolds, raising her voice. She stands in front of me, as though her presence will smother out mine. "The house is mine today, remember? Sam," she accuses, crosses her arms, and I imagine she's giving _the look._

"Emily," says the burliest one, standing to his full height. "It's pouring out there. Have a little compassion."

"Yeah," exclaims a second voice, bouncing up from the floor. It looks like his eyes flicker to me, but I can't tell from the shadows. "Sorry, Em. Didn't realize you had guests. But I'm starved. Got anything to eat?" Seemingly uninterested, he turns away and heads for the kitchen.

Emily points a finger. "Don't you open that refrigerator. The power is out. And I don't know for how long." She turns to me, holds out a hand. "I'm sorry. The boys are brutes," she says, glaring at who I assume to be her Sam.

He holds up his hands in surrender, then follows the other man into the kitchen.

Emily's nails are plain, straight, undeterred by natures of work. But her palms are calloused.

I slip my hand in hers. Allow her to pull me up. Pat the imaginary dust from my jeans. Look everywhere but the rest of the pack of boys—of men—parading around the house, paying no attention to me. Upon Emily's request, I suppose. When she requested the house for a day.

Shaking fingers run through my hair, tuck the strands behind my ear. I'm not prepared to entertain company.

I sip my coffee, grimacing. Cold. No trace of warmth left in the ceramic mug cradled in my fingertips.

Emily walks after the boys.

I give her a few seconds' head start before I follow. The voices are bright, vibrant, deep. I pause my footsteps, and pull the vibrating phone from my back pocket. A familiar number stares back. "Hello?" I say, holding the phone to my ear.

"Hey, Brianna, it's Gran," she says. I have to pull the phone away from my ear so my ear drum doesn't burst.

"Yes," I agree. "Hi."

"Hey, listen," she says. "The weather is getting pretty bad out here. Why don't you ask Emily if you can stay the night there? I don't feel comfortable with you getting on the road."

The lights around me flicker, bringing life to the darkness. "I don't know, Gran. I can't ask her to do that." I shift my weight from foot to foot, silently begging to let this conversation be over with.

"Oh she'll love it. Go on and ask her. I'll wait," she says, giving no room for argument.

I give up and sigh, turning toward the kitchen. Without realizing it, I shifted toward the window, away from company.

Emily stood, hand on the wall, smiling, waiting.

"Ah," I clear my throat, tap the tips of my toes against the carpet. "Can I, um-"

She nods. "Of course. I'll get the spare bedroom ready." She half-turns to the kitchen, where all the excitement stems. "There's more coffee in here," she says, motioning to the kitchen. "I'll make us some food when I come down."

My cheeks burn and I turn away, to look out of the windows again. "Yeah, Gran. She says it's fine."

"Oh, wonderful. So, I'll see you tomorrow, then. No rush," she exclaims. "I love you." She hangs up before I can get a word in, and I stare at the blank screen.

I tap the palm of my hand with my phone and stick back in my pocket. The heat of my cheeks blossoms to my chest and down my arms. My jacket seems suffocating, so I shrug it off, switching the coffee mug from one hand to the other, and lay it over the back of Emily's couch.

My fingers tug against the ends of my shirt sleeves, pulling them over the palms of my hands. It became a nervous habit some years ago, and I can't seem to get myself to stop. Not that I put in that much effort.

My eyes don't stray from the mug as I walk through the kitchen to the sink, maneuvering around the giants sitting at the kitchen table. I wait until all of the coffee is drained in the sink before rinsing. I go through the motions: cream, heat, sugar, froth, pour coffee; managing to avoid meaningless conversation. But I listen, and can't help but smile.

"My money's on Paul."

"Yeah, well I'm betting on Jake. He's strongest."

"One of 'em, at least. Jared's been a sissy since he's been with Kim. Whipped."

"Guys," one whined. "I'm right here."

"Seriously whipped."

"Boys," Sam warns. "Don't come crying to Emily when your bet goes south."

A roll of thunder shakes through the house again, and the front door slams against the wall. Two more bodies roll in.

I turn, and lean my back against the sink. It appears the boys have forgotten I'm here, so I don't move. I cradle the newly warmed mug to my chest and inhale. The smell of coffee encompasses rain, dew, mud. With the door wide open, the boys sopping wet, I see the horizon darkening.

One shakes his hair out, grins, and saunters over to the kitchen. His eyes flicker to me, and manage to avoid his gaze my looking down at the frothed cream sitting atop the liquid coffee.

The other opens his mouth to speak. "Hey, you're Brianna, right? Girl from Emily's Al-Anon group."

I sip my coffee and train my gaze in his general direction. "Yep." I veer around the table, around the horde of boys, coffee mug pressed to my lips, back into the living area where I can sit next to the fire. In case the lights go out. Again.

Their loud, boyous voices drift into white noise.


End file.
